


Mistake

by EclecticAce



Series: Short Affair - Section VII (LJ) [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Gunshot Wounds, injured Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticAce/pseuds/EclecticAce
Summary: It was his fault.





	

                He felt and heard rather than saw when Illya woke up. The slight, sharp intake of breath, the minute contraction of the muscles of the palm of the hand he held in his, and finally the feeling of not being the only one in the room again brought Napoleon to his feet in a flash. He readjusted the hold he had on Illya’s hand and squeezed it gently, “take it easy, Illya, don’t try to breath deeply. Short and sweet for now.”

                He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound as the Russian nodded his head, turned his head away from the harsh overhead light, and grimaced as he swallowed.

“How do you feel?”

Napoleon frowned when a smile flittered across the Russian’s gaunt face. “Admittedly,” he had to lean over the blond to hear his whispered answer, “this was not how-“ he stopped to swallow and exhale and Napoleon finally smiled, if only in an entirely self-deprecating fashion. “You finish that sentence, baby, and you’ll find your hair is considerably lacking come tomorrow morning.”

Illya’s face morphed into a gentle smile seconds before any sound worked its way from his lips. But once it did, the Russian’s body was already contracting with pain, his eyes widened to almost epic proportions; his pupils barely visible pinpricks in the raging sea of blue and a trail of blood trickled down the side of his lips due to the force with which he’d bitten his lip to keep from making a sound.  

“Don’t hold it in, Illya,” Napoleon reached for a tissue from the box on the side table beside his bed to wipe away the blood before the nurses came in. “It’ll only hurt more if you do.”

Just as he sat back down, still holding his friend’s hand, the nurses he’d been expecting finally entered. And, though he hadn’t meant to, the bone-deep exhaustion he felt mixed with the guilt and helplessness and, upon locking eyes with the first nurse to enter Illya’s room, he rocketed from his chair.

“Finally decided to come and check on the Russian, have you? Or were you waiting to see if he’d just di-”

“Napoleon!” Illya yelped and yanked as hard as he could on their joined hands. Then stiffened, lost all the colour that’d he’d just started getting back, rolled his head to the side and threw up. The noise that broke from his friend’s lip with every dry heave that followed sounded like something from an animal on the verge of expiring and forced everything in Napoleon’s own (empty) stomach into his throat. He barely made it to the waste bin in the corner of the darkened room.

When his eyes met Illya’s again, while still on his knees by the bin, he noticed that, though they still showed the obvious pain his friend was trying to conceal, they now showed something else.

Guilt.

His friend felt guilty.

But for what? It wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault.  

Napoleon just shook his head, turned his head back toward the bin.

It was his.  

It was him that hadn’t checked the safety after target practise. It was him that had taken the holster off and literally tossed it onto the table, something they were warned never to do. It was him that’d nearly killed his friend.

So, what did Illya have to feel guilty about?

“Mr. Solo?” he felt a gentle touch his back before he registered the nurse’s voice, “can I get you anything?”

He spit into the bin a couple times and rolled onto his backside in one movement. “No,” he croaked, cleared his throat and tried again. “No,” a quick swipe of his brow with his forearm followed, to both hide his shame and hopefully wipe away any tears on his face. “I’m fine, really.”

The same nurse he’d verbally attacked now stood in front of him, *wanting* to take care of *him*.

Nurses really were a special breed.

“Are you sure? You’ve not slept since Mr. Kuryakin was brought down, I can bring a bed in f-“

“No,” he dropped her hand and pushed himself to his knees and then to his feet, “I’m fine, I promise.”

How could he ever explain the cloying fear in his gut every time he closed his eyes, How the only thing he ever saw was bright red crimson. Everywhere. Crimson on his hands, trousers, shirt, the floor, the chair, the table…how it seemed to appear out of nowhere, dye his friend’s white shirt in the blink of an eye no matter how hard he tried to cover the wound.

Every beat of his friend’s heart drove more blood out of his body and across Napoleon’s knuckles. The rattling sound of Illya’s collapsed lung that filled his ears every time Illya breathed that only drove his panic higher- how could he ever explain any of it?

He hadn’t realised he’d moved back to the chair until he felt someone grab his hand. He startled slightly and looked to his right, Illya looked back at him with the same wild eyes as before.

“Please,” the Russian raspy voice barely carried over the ringing in his ears. Napoleon blinked and suddenly there were two hands holding his. “you mustn’t blame yourself, Napoleon. It’ll only drive you mad. It was a mistake, nothing more.”

There was new tape on Illya’s hand which meant more painkiller. Which meant he couldn’t possibly know what he was saying.

Self-disgust had him pulling away, but Illya only pulled back with far more strength than Napoleon expected. “Please, Napoleon, promise me.”

Brown eyes met blue and suddenly the brown eyes broke, “oh god,” Napoleon finally sobbed, his forehead meeting Illya’s IV-free hand, “I’m so sorry, Illya. I’m so sorry.”


End file.
